AN: Just a blurb about the touch of lovers
Rated: M for poetical smut
The touch always beings as something quiet, pale and delicate, blooming when the stars are out, subtle and hesitant in the sunshine. The long slender fingers of a scholar belie the hidden strength found in the stories whispered by the scraping of his calluses against her softer skin. Their coarse texture is a testament to decades of wielding a stave, a paint brush, as well as a hundred other talents he has yet to show her. In the daytime, their palms slide along one another, the intimacy of twining fingers the only act of love-making they care to share with curious eyes. Safely obscured beyond the veils of night, it is another tale entirely. He studies the curves of her shoulder blades with sweeps of careful fingertips. He thumbs his way along the knots on her spine with an air of aching reverence. He traces the arching lines of her navel, her clavicle, her pelvis, until he knows her outline better than his own. His grip tightens and she bends to him, supple and sliding, feeling him with every ounce of flesh she can press to meet his body. They meld. They dance. They burn together. She brings her arms up, blunted nails biting into the muscle of his back, clawing and insistent, begging to be near. He pours lost words into her ears, and in this moment they are understood, solid and knowable as her own mortal heart. They cling. They grasp. They come together, their sweat soaked bodies curling into a single panting heartbeat, mimicking the tender way they hold each others' hands.